


祖母はウェルズ人だよ。

by Anonymous



Category: The Teahouse
Genre: Clammy cuddles, Deliberate Bad Art, Deliberate Bad Fic, French Language used to great effect, Linneus is oozing, Other, Shipping this, Welsh Grannies, Xanthe kinda likes it, rape racks, really regretable porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:59:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xanthe and Linneus get down to business, to defeat the Huns. Only there aren't any Huns. Also, porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	祖母はウェルズ人だよ。

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HannaM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaM/gifts).



 

“Les mots.” Linneus mumbled, his face pressed to the pillow, a silver graze of eye peeking from the edge. “Il y a...une porte. Baise-moi avec une brosse à dents?”

“Fancy talking,” Atros said, not quite concerned, but considering being concerned in the future. The pink-haired whore hadn’t said anything in Duche since they’d started. “Translate?”

“Sec, le vin. Comma ca va le vin? Est un chien boi le vin. Un chien brun.” Linneus moaned a little, arching into hand stroking his back. “Souviens! Souviens! Souviens!”

Atros stopped petting him, wondering if he should go get someone. Or something. Maybe a stick for the over-eager slut to fuck himself on. “Well that’s too bad.”

“Baises-moi avec la grande--” Linneus paused, then continued gravely. “Ce soir je te mets le feu.”

“I didn’t know you were foreign,” Atros said, trying to make the conversation happen, generously deciding to speak to the whore, despite his many flaws. “Were you always? Is this new? Did you just become foreign recently?” It wasn’t that he disapproved of foreign whores, as such. It was just that he didn’t quite know what to do with one. And also that he’d known Linneus for a long time, and he was a little surprised that this was only coming up now.

Linneus struggled up to his knees, green eyes blazing with immigrant fires. “Tu veux voir un cadavre?” he asked, voice dropping into a whisper.

“Yes you’re very pretty,” Atros said impatiently. It was odd, wasn’t it? Linneus had seemed perfectly normal last time he’d fucked him. Spoke proper Duche, not even a trace of an accent. “Could have sworn you were a Duche, like everyone else in Ducheland.”

Linneus slithered toward him, almost appearing to levitate through the air, his back twisting at impossible angles. “Ce soir, je t’aime. Demain? Je t’mange.”

“Well it’s a nice sounding language, at least,” Atros decided. “Let’s get you naked!”

He blinked, then realized that Linneus already was--that Linneus had never been clothed. A suckling sound alerted him to the fact that his cock had been engulfed. Bending impossibly, Linneus’ spine twisted until Atros was faced with the smooth, white flesh of a delectable rear. “Le sucre, ça fait un lubrifiant du tonnerre.”

This is strange, some part of his mind thought. Atros felt like an observer in his own body, watching as his fingers approached, and encroached. Backs don’t bend like that, do they?

Linneus moaned, his soft, tunnel-like mouth rippling eagerly around Atros’s flesh. “Y a quelqu'un qui veut tenter le coup avec moi?” he spoke distinctly, despite having a solid case of dick in the mouth. “Pour la science?”

Atros nodded, slowly, unsure of what he was agreeing to, but suddenly quite certain that he must agree. “Yes?” Linneus stretched around his fingers, soft pleasure noises emanating from his sound hole. His body seemed wetter--looser. Loose enough that three curious fingers became an inquiring four became a fascinated five, and still Atros’ hand was not clenched in that tight cavern.

“Oui.” He felt the word rolling into him, like the words of God spoken directly into his cock, and Atros trembled a bit. It felt...wrong. As though he’d stumbled into something he could not understand, regardless of the language it was spoken in.

“Say, would you mind overly if I put my hand inside you? You’re rather loose, can’t imagine you feel it much.” His head tilted as the angles of Linneus’s body ceased to make sense, and then snapped back into simply being odd. The whore was awfully flexible.

“Tirez les premiers.”

Probably permission, Atros decided, slipping his knuckles past the soft, squelching ring of Linneus’ anus. His body was cool inside, like a fish’s, and Atros shuddered at the thought of what it would feel like to bury his cock in that gaping wound. Clammy. So clammy.

“I want--” He jerked his hand free, the strings of mucus clinging to it strangely erotic. “Linneus, I don’t care if you’re foreign, I just want you--I want to today, tomorrow, and forever!”

“Donc.”

Linneus twisted, and his lower half engulfed Atros’ penile tissue in cool flesh. The texture was like a cooled eggplant, gone cold and slimy, and Atros had never been so aroused. “God, Linneus! I love you!”

The face looking back at him was his own, tinged darker, and the eyes staring back at him weren’t human--had never been. Linneus’ perfect white skin darkened slowly, reaching the shade of a paper bag, and a gutteral, sexual whisper rolled off the whore tongue, "Ma grand-mère était galloise!"

“What--” He came, spilling into the soft fleshy hole, and instantly felt something change inside him. His very ancestry roiled dangerously, the purity of ten thousand gay or inbreeding Atros contaminated in a single spurt of semen. “...Roedd fy Mam-gu yn dod o Gymru...” he whispered, not knowing what he spoke.

He swallowed, and saw. Rows on rows of teeth, hair like a shaggy dog, the eyes he’d so admired like lagoons of foreign grasses. Atros opened his mouth, and spoke, “Min mormor var walesisk?” His voice cracked, and he knew, suddenly, despair. “Моя бабушка была валлийкой!”

The thing in his whore’s body laughed, a chuckle as ancient as time, and Atros shuddered, cold and mucus covered and irrevocably changed.

“Η γιαγιά μου ήταν από την Ουαλλία,” he pleaded, but the words coming out were not his own. They were foreign and strange, which was all right for others, but not the proud scion of the Atros family, with a heritage so pure that the family tree had been refined into a ladder. A ladder of proud, noble Duchelanders. “Baka mi je bila Velšankaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” he cried out, angry tears leaking from his ruined, corrupted, and brown eyes.

***

Atros woke, covered in a cold sweat that felt far too close to slime.

He stood. Walked out of the room he shared with his wife when he wasn’t cheating on her. Went down the stairs. Took a left turn into the raperoom.

With numb, terrified hands, he untied Linneus, standing back when the filthy whore tried to touch him.

“Atros--” Linneus whispered, his eyes huge (were they brown? it was too dark to tell). “Atros, you must run away--”

“Shut up.” He breathed in, and spoke words that wounded him to his very core in a way that Linneus would never understand, filthy, faithless whore that he was. “You’re fired. Get out.”

He steeled himself for the protests, the whinging of how the Teahouse was his home that Linneus always wept about, but got nothing but silence. Instead, Linneus looked behind himself, at the lovingly polished rape-rack that Atros had bought just for him.

Atros hated the lack of gratitude on the whore’s face--didn’t he know how hard it was to be rich and in love with a worthless whore? No, Linneus didn’t know that pain. The lack of gratitude and sympathy was like ground shards of glass in a metaphorical wound.

“Yeah, okay,” Linneus whispered, and he didn’t even sound sad.

Atros hissed in rage, his fist balling up and he prepared to punch the whore--

Linneus looked up at him, eyes so wide that Atros lost his balance and fell to his knees, a sudden sharp pain piercing his heart. He clapped a hand to his chest, and suddenly the sharp stabbing pain was in his hand.

“What have you done--?” Atros whispered, his heart’s blood raining onto the floor boards, mingling with the puddle from last night. “Linneus, what have you done?”

A man built like a lumberjack eased out of the shadows, and lifted Linneus into his arms. Neither of them answered Atros’ question. Too common to understand? Too foreign?

“Is ‘e dead yet?” someone asked, and Atros struggled to deny to, hand grasping the arrow head that was protruding from his chest and tugging on it. It did nothing. The arrow was firmly planted.

“Please,” Linneus whispered finally, his voice still hoarse and broken from screaming into the gag. “Please, I don’t want him to suffer.”

His last thought was of his grandmother, and her suspiciously dark skin. “Je suis le morse,” Atros breathed, and died, a poetic knife piercing his brain stem.


End file.
